


Killing Ben

by CaraRose



Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Ben is my Eve proxy, British Intelligence, Dark Rey, F/M, International Assassins, Killing Eve AU, Murder, Rey is the Villanelle of this fic, So she's a psychopath female assassin, Spy thriller vibes, Stalking, Violent
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-05
Updated: 2019-09-02
Packaged: 2020-04-08 10:08:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19104961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaraRose/pseuds/CaraRose
Summary: Criminal Psychology doctorate student Ben Solo is pulled into the MI6 investigation of "Rey", a female assassin working on the international level. In a cat and mouse game, the two soon find themselves with a growing mutual obsession with one another.





	1. Like Abstract Art

**Author's Note:**

> So I started watching Killing Eve and then binged watched two seasons in a week. Highly rec the show, it's dark, funny, and very good at subverting expectations. 
> 
> I've really wanted to do a dark psychopath Rey in a fic, mainly because that's a version of Rey we rarely see, even in dark side Rey fics.
> 
> I wasn't confident in my ability do a genderswap on Ben, so this is m/f (killing Eve the relationship is f/f between Eve and Villanelle) with Ben/Rey as the proxies for Eve/Villanelle.
> 
> Nice to have a creative burst again. Hoping this will get me writing in earnest again and I'll be able to pick up my languishing WIPs and start hacking at Gravitation and Something to Love again as well. 
> 
> Anyway, hope you all enjoy.

She sighed as she looked at herself in the mirror, dabbing a piece of tissue against the blood oozing from the corner of her mouth, hazel eyes studying her reflection. The fluorescent lights glared off the white counter. White, the hotel bathroom was white—cold, harsh, sterile. Nineties pop rock music played from the other room.

Setting the tissue down, red blood drops a sharp contrast against the white, she examined herself. There was a slight swelling on the side of her face—it would bruise, she was sure. Split lip, hair mussed, dress…

She let out an aggravated huff, pulling at the torn collar of the green dress. Ruined.

A hard thud came from the main room and she rolled her eyes, pulling her hair loose. She shook it out, combing the brown strands smooth with her fingers before tying it back into a bun.

Another thud, this time with a pained groan. She glanced out the bathroom door in annoyance before giving herself one more look over in the mirror. Much better, beautiful. Except for the dress, anyway. Picking up the bloody tissue, she tossed it in the toilet and flushed it before walking out into the main room.

A bloody hand-print decorated the outside of the bathroom doorway. Blood spatters on the beige rug. A figure writhed next to the bed, tangled in now red stained white hotel bedspread, kicking the floor.

“I’m pretty sure you’re going to have to be louder than that,” she scolded, walking over to look down at him. Blood coated the front of his dress shirt, face bruised and bloody. His left hand was pinned to the floor by a knife stabbed through the palm. Bloody fingerprints were smeared over the handle where he’d been trying to grip the hilt with his other hand to pull it out. Her eyes traced over him, tongue darting out to lick her bottom lip. “After all, you did pay them extra to ignore any noise from this room tonight, didn’t you?”

He blinked at her, wheezing out in a bland American accent, “Please…”

“Hmmm?” She smiled, admiring her handiwork. Eleven of the twelve stab wounds had missed any major organs, the last one had been a little too high, nicking his lung. Still, he could lie here in pain, dying slowly for five or six hours before he succumbed to blood loss and shock.

“Please… sorry…”

“What’s that? Sorry?” She walked across the room and grabbed the desk chair, dragging it over before straddling it backwards, resting her chin on the back as she looked down and raised her eyebrows, feigning confusion. From the desk behind her the Wallflowers were playing on a bluetooth speaker. “Sorry for what?”

“Hitting...”

“Oh,” she laughed, shrugging her shoulders and pointing to the side of her face, “this?” She waved a hand, “I wasn’t upset about that.” Leaning forward, she cupped a hand over the side of her mouth, like she was telling a secret, “Between you and me I’ve had far worse.”

He squirmed, blinking at her. “Please… I have... wife...children…”

“Mmm,” she nodded, sticking her bottom lip out in a pout, “so do a lot of people.” She sucked her lip back in, biting it a moment, “Wonder what they’d think if they found out what you like to do with young women when you're on business trips?” His mouth dropped open slightly, shaking his head. She giggled, waving her hand, “Don’t fret, even in the unlikely event the police find your victims, I’m sure they’d keep that quite discrete. When powerful people die they hate to insult their memories.” Her hand waved dismissively as she got to her feet, “And don’t try to apologize for trying to force yourself on me… it’s not like I wasn’t expecting it.”

She crouched down next him, reaching over to grab the hilt of the knife pinning his hand to the floor, “I mean, I was counting on that to get in the room with you.” She ripped the knife up, the man groaning and dragging his hand to his chest. Poking the tip of the knife to her lips, she watched with fascination for a moment. “I should thank you for making my job easier.”

“Although, to be completely honest I was little mad about the dress,” she continued, humorously, tugging at the torn collar. “I rather liked this dress. But…” she spread her hands. “Casualty of my work environment.”

Her eyes traced over the man before glancing over the room, splashed and spattered with blood on white and beige. “Beautiful, isn’t it? Like abstract art.”

The song playing ended and a new one started. She stiffened as the first notes began to play.

_Never made it as a wise man_

_Couldn’t make it as a poor man stealing,_

_Tired of living as a blind man_

_I’m sick of sight without a sense of feeling_

She turned her head to give the speaker a long stare before turning back to look back down at the man, “Nickelback? Seriously, you have _Nickelback_ on your playlist?” The man just groaned, and she spread her hands, “I can’t decide if that’s pathetic or heinous. Anyway… suppose that’s my cue to get going.”

Rolling her eyes, she stood, grabbing the man by the hair to wrench his head up as she placed the knife to his throat, “Look at me.” His frantic eyes met hers and she thrust the into his throat, watching as he sputtered, blood and spittle leaking from his mouth. She smiled, enthralled as he gasp his last breath.

She let out a satisfied sigh as she let his body drop back to the floor.

Getting up, she grabbed the speaker, still playing _Remind Me_ , and walked into the bathroom. As she checked herself over in the mirror again, she casually tossed the speaker into the toilet, cutting off the song, letting out a relieved sigh.

“All right then,” she said quietly to herself, stepping out of the bathroom and walking across the room to get her jacket from the closet. She turned to the body laying next to the bed, zipping the jacket up to cover the torn dress. “Have to get going but thank you for such a lovely evening.” Flashing a smirk, she opened the door, putting the do not disturb sign on as she left to vanish down the hallway.

 

* * *

 

“You have got to fucking be kidding me,” he snapped, leaning his elbows on the reception desk counter and burying his face in his hands. Twelve hours of travel to find that someone had fucked up his hotel reservation. When he got back to Stanford he was going to strangle whoever was supposed to be in charge of this bullshit. Maybe throttle his adviser too for pressuring him into this.

“Please,” the desk attendant looked up from his computer, his accent making him sound annoyingly polite. “I am quite sure we’ll be able to sort something out to accommodate you. Though I really must request you watch your language. We are in a public space. What’s your full name again?”

His eyes rolled back as he straightened, fighting the urge to grab the little prick by his tie. Instead he smoothed back his hair— thick, black, and pulled into a loose ponytail that covered his ears—closing his eyes and taking a deep breath. “Ben Solo.”

“Are you visiting London for business or pleasure, Mr. Solo?”

He snapped his eyes open to find the attendant still tapping away on his computer, “Business.”

The lobby fell quiet again, aside from the clicking of keys, before the attendant piped up again, “And what business are you in?”

“I’m presenting a series of lectures,” he answered, curtly, pinching the bridge of his nose. All he wanted at this point was a bed. That and maybe the head of whoever fucked up his reservation.

The attendant tilted his head, obviously feigning interest, “Really? How interesting. What subject?”

Ben clenched his hands and took another deep breath, “The Subtle Nature of Violent Female Psychopaths.”

Typing cut off as the attendant looked up, raising his eyebrows and speaking before heading through a door into a small office behind the desk, “Rather specific. Give me one moment, please.”

Letting out an irritated huff, he turned, walking a few steps to look at himself in the mirrors that framed the elevators. He looked like shit, dark circles under his eyes, flyaway hairs trying to escape his ponytail. Reaching up, he pulled the hairband out, shaking his head to let his hair fall loose to his shoulders.

He combed it back with his fingers, not paying much attention as the elevator dinged and a person stepped out. It wasn’t until he sensed the eyes on him that he turned to see a young woman standing where she had stepped out of the elevator, staring at him blankly, eyes weirdly empty. She was pretty, brown hair pulled back from her face and wearing a jacket zipped closed to her chin. The corner of her mouth looked a little swollen.

Ben glanced around to see if there was anything else holding her attention before looking back, "Are you okay?"

That seemed to snap her out of whatever was holding her in place. She turned, face still devoid of any emotion, and started walking away. He let his eyes follow her a moment before turning back to the mirror.

"Wear it down," a voice called from behind him. He turned to see the woman again, she gave him a small smile before turning and walking quickly out the door.

He stared a moment, bemused, before turning back to the mirror. He ran one more hand through his hair, shrugging at his reflection as he snapped the hairband around his wrist. Satisfied, he turned back to the desk as the attendant emerged from the office.

"We do have a room available, one of our smaller ones, I'm afraid but—"

"I don't care at this point as long as it has a shower and a bed."

The attendant tilted his chin up, clearly annoyed at the interruption, "the guest in the room next to it has a tendency to get a bit rowdy sometimes, we apologize in advance if there are any disturbances." He offered the envelope with the keycard.

Ben snatched it quickly from the attendant's hand, grabbing his bags, "Whatever."

“Lift to your right,” the desk attendant offered a fake smile.

“Yeah, I’m not blind,” he snapped as he headed for the elevator.

 

* * *

 

The room was fine, and the supposed rowdy neighbor must have died or something, because there wasn’t a peep coming from the next room.

He lay on the bed in his boxers with his laptop on his bare chest, signing into the hotels a pay per day internet. Fucking bullshit, you get free wifi in a shithole Super Eight but have to pay in a fancy London hotel.

Whatever, he was expensing that shit.

As soon as he logged into his email an instant message popped up.

 

 

> _**FINNIGAN:** GOOOOD MORNING SUNSHINE_
> 
>  

Ben sighed, shaking his head before typing a reply.

 

 

> _**SOLO:** It’s fucking 2am here, asshole. _
> 
> _**FINNIGAN** : Technically morning _
> 
> _**FINNIGAN** : Settling in across the pond? _
> 
> _**SOLO** : Someone fucked up the hotel reservation. _
> 
> _**FINNIGAN** : When don’t they screw shit up? Assuming it got worked out since you ain’t screaming at anyone on the phone. _
> 
> _**SOLO:** Still gonna kill someone when I get home. _
> 
> _**FINNIGAN** : On the subject of killing—_
> 
>  

A file transfer popped up, Ben clicked the download and opened the folder. The first image was an older man with a metal object stabbed into his eye. He squinted, zooming in.

 

 

> _**FINNIGAN** : HAAAAAIIIIIIR PIN!_
> 
>  

Ben snorted, zooming in as much as he could without losing quality.

 

 

> _**SOLO** : That shit have a syringe hidden in it? _
> 
> _**FINNIGAN** : Good eyes, my man. Dude was high up in the Sicilian mafia. Party going on with lots of people. She blended right in and lured him out of sight. Injected a neurotoxin right in his eye._
> 
>  

He tapped his fingers on his keyboard, scrolling through the file on the case.

 

 

> _**SOLO** : Am I reading this right? She used the guy’s own grandkid to lure him up to his_ _room away from everyone?_
> 
> _**FINNIGAN** : Told him they were going to play a prank. One hell of a prank I guess, _ _heartless. Not getting much from the kid on a description. Woman. White. Brunette. Hair pulled back, assuming with the murder weapon holding it in place._
> 
> _**SOLO** : Creative, crafty, cold. It’s her. _
> 
> _**FINNIGAN** : I swear we should give her a name. La Femme Fatale, the international female assassin. _
> 
> _**SOLO** : Yeah, no. _
> 
> _**FINNIGAN** : YOU ARE SO FUCKING BORING, SOOOOOLO. _
> 
> _**SOLO** : and you are so fucking annoying, bro. _
> 
> _**FINNIGAN** : You love me anyway. _
> 
> _**SOLO** : maybe. _
> 
> _**SOLO:** Need to crash. Thanks for adding to my collection. _
> 
> _**FINNIGAN** : No problem, I keep my eyes and ears open. Will send anything else I can _ _get from this your way._
> 
> _**FINNIGAN** : One thing… have you tried talking to some of your contacts at the feds about _ _this? You managed to convince me, you might be able to convince them._
> 
>  

Ben sighed, rubbing his eyes with one hand.

 

> _**SOLO** : They don’t want to hear it. _
> 
> _**FINNIGAN:** What about your uncle?_

 

That made him stiffen, taking a breath and biting his lip before typing.

 

 

> _**SOLO:** He wouldn’t listen to me if I wanted to try. Which I don’t. _
> 
> _**FINNIGAN** : Alright, anyway, night night. _
> 
> _**SOLO** : Fuck off (affectionately)._
> 
>  

He closed the instant message window and snapped the laptop shut, tossing it on the bed next to him. Rolling on his side, he turned off the reading light and closed his eyes to try to sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oooph, so for those who don't know, I had to have surgery last week. Abdominal hysterectomy due to a fibroid tumor that was, to quote the med student that assisted on my surgery, "like a small basketball" and weighed over five lbs.
> 
> Feeling okay, just sore and tired and a little depressed right now. Hopefully as I start to feel better I'll be able to put more of this six to eight weeks of healing downtime into some writing and get some progress on these WIPs. 
> 
> Fic related note, I just want to throw out the warning that any and all characters in this fic are at risk of being killed off. It's a reylo crime and spy thriller with a murder happy psychopath. What can I say, there will be characters that die.

Ben awoke mid-morning to what sounded like a small army parading outside in the hallway and the next room. He groaned, stumbling out of bed to take a piss, leaning his head on the bathroom wall. A low headache throbbing behind his eyes.

More stomping, voices… he threw himself back on the bed and pulled the pillow over his head to drown out the noise. After a shit day of travel yesterday and his body a pack of time zones out of sync, he deserved to sleep in today.

He was nearly asleep when a loud knocking at his room door snapped him back awake. Swearing, he sat up and grabbed his pants off the floor, pulling them over his boxers before stumbling to the door and jerking it open.

A red head in a badly fitted suit was at the door, hand still up mid knock. Behind him a half dozen or more men in the background, some coming and going with latex gloves and shoe covers, some just seeming to mill in the background.

The man raised an eyebrow, casting a disdainful look at Ben’s bare chest before clearing his throat and pulling a battered notebook from his pocket. He spoke with a superficial politeness that didn’t make it to his blue eyes, “My apologies for disturbing you, sir. There was an incident last night and I was hoping you could answer a few questions.”

“An incident?” Ben asked, rubbing his eyes. “The only incidents I was involved in yesterday was a delayed flight and a lost room reservation.”

“The incident was next door,” the man answered, an edge of annoyance creeping into his voice as he looked at his notepad, “If I could get your name, sir?”

Ben leaned on the door frame, “Could I get yours?”

The man looked up from the notepad, “Hux. I work for MI5.” He raised his eyebrows as if asking if that was good enough.

“Ben Solo.”

Behind Hux another man turned his head sharply. He was older, greying hair and stern features, his blue eyes gazed at Ben calculatingly.

Hux didn’t seem to notice, jotting the name down, “American?”

“Yeah.”

“Did you hear anything at all from the next room last night?”

“No, but I didn’t get in the room till late.” The older man was drifting closer, stopping just behind Hux. “Dead silence from next door.”

“Quite dead, I expect,” Hux looked up, a bored look in his eyes, like he’d already written off Ben as a source of any kind of information. “How late?”

“After one,” Ben ran a hand through his hair. “What happened?”

Hux acted as if he hadn’t heard the question, “I think that’s enough, thank you for your tim—”

“There was a murder,” the older man spoke, making Hux jump. The redhead gave the man an annoyed look as he stepped forward. “An American consul.”

Ben leaned out slightly to glance towards the door of the next room, “Guess that explains why the rowdy neighbor was so quiet.”

“Rowdy?” Hux blinked, brow furrowing.

“Apparently he had a reputation.”

“And how would you happen to know of his reputation?” Hux narrowed his blue eyes as he stared. “Did you know him?”

Folding his arms, Ben snorted, “No.”

“Yet you were aware of his reputation?”

“Yeah, I became aware of it when the desk attendant warned me while handing me the keys to this room.”

The older man frowned thoughtfully, “Interesting.”

“What’s so interesting about another dead end?” Hux snapped, glaring.

“You talked to the desk, didn’t you?”

Hux huffed, “Of course.”

“Hm,” the older man nodded, “As did I, both the overnight attendant and the morning attendant, and neither seemed to think it worth mentioning. Unless they mentioned it to you?”

“No,” Hux frowned. “Perhaps it would be worth questioning them aga—”

“Armitage! Edrisson!” An American voice called from down the hallway, causing the two men to tense.

Ben stiffened as well. The voice sounded very familiar.

“Fuck,” Hux muttered under his breath.

“Concur with that sentiment,” the older man murmured,

“Really? Really, boys? You doing us like this?” A man approached, spreading his arms. His tone was jovial, friendly, but none of that reached the fixed, intense look in his brown eyes. He wore a dress shirt with no tie, open at the collar. An open navy sports jacket over it, hanging unevenly on his frame. It should have looked careless and sloppy, but instead, somehow, it seemed to be carefree and dashing.

Hux rolled his eyes, “I assure you, Dameron, we have no intention of doing you like anything.”

Ben shrank back, pressing himself against the door frame as if trying to not attract attention. Dameron stopped in front of Hux, folding his arms, attention entirely focused on the redhead. “I thought we had a good relationship. I thought—” Hux let out a dismissive sigh, which Dameron ignored, “—that we were on the same side here. And yet I find out Villechame is dead through whispers and side channels?”

“I do apologize, Poe,” the older man, Edrisson spoke, voice reasonable and polite. “The American Embassy was supposed to be notified of this. I personally had put in the request that Organa’s office be contacted with the news. Someone must have ‘dropped the ball’ as you like to say. In fact, that was the term you used to explain why my people weren’t contacted by your people during that whole Dorvak incident last year?”

Dameron’s face went blank. Hux snickered.

“Good help, I swear. So hard to find these days.” Edrisson spread his hands.

“All right. Fine,” Dameron huffed. “But I want full in on this from now on. Don’t fucking toy with me or Ambassador Organa. Villechame was supposed to be negotiating some important trade deals and now we’re already scrambling to find someone to take his place. We—” Dameron’s eyes glanced towards Ben’s room door for the first time. He turned his head sharply, “Benny?!”

“Hi, Poe,” Ben said, resignation in his voice.

“BENNNY!” Poe grabbed Ben by the shoulders. “Been years, shit, man. I—” He stopped shaking his head and holding up a finger, “Sorry, one sec.”

Poe turned back to a perplexed looking Hux and a completely nonplussed looking Edrisson, “Okay, so we’re in the loop from now on. The where, when, how, why—all of it—we need to know.”

“Where is right over there,” Hux stated, voice flat as he nodded towards the next room’s door. “When was last night. How was stabbed with a knife.”

“Motive? Poltiical?”

"We're still investigating," Edrisson said. "Motive is undetermined."

"This happens right before trade negotiations. You can't tell me that's a coincidence."

"A knife tends to be personal," Ben said, looking at his hand. "Emotional. Close, intimate… sensual."

The three men turned their heads to look at him.

"Sensual,” Hux repeated, rolling his eyes to glance at Edrisson.

Ben shrugged, "I mean.... It takes more effort than a gun. Either you're using emotion to do the act or getting a rewarding feeling from the result."

“It’s also quiet,” Hux replied, dismissively. “We will inform your office as soon as our investigation reaches a determination.”

“I want daily updates,” Poe folded his arms.

Hux curled his lip, “You—”

“Will have your daily updates, Mr. Dameron, I assure you,” Edrisson said quickly, placing a firm hand on Hux’s shoulder. “Now, if you’ll excuse us, Armitage and I need to go as the desk attendant a few additional questions.” He began to steer a very irritated looking Hux away, looking back over his shoulder, “And thank you for your time, Mr. Solo. We appreciate it.”

Poe watched them leave, glancing at Ben, keeping his voice low, “That Hux is a fucking dickswab, I hate that prick.”

“Really? Seemed like a charmer,” Ben replied, rubbing his eyes.

Poe slapped Ben on the shoulder, “So, the fuck you doing in England?”

“Work. For Stanford.”

Poe squinted, “Does that count as work? I mean, you’re as student, aren’t you?”

“I’m also a TA,” Ben’s jaw tightened. “So yes, it’s work.”

“Huh.” Poe shrugged, raising a finger. “Your ma know you’re here?”

Ben winced, “No”.

“Come on, man,” Poe gave an exasperated huff. “How long has it been?”

“I’m sure she’s busy.”

Poe rolled his eyes as his phone buzzed. He pulled it out, frowning at the number, “Got to take this, but call your mom, you jackass.” He slapped Ben on the arm again before heading down the hall, answering his phone as he headed towards the elevator.

Sighing, Ben ran a hand through his hair, leaning out his door to glance at the door to the next room. Some weird, morbid curiosity made him want to go over and look in. He probably would have if he didn’t know he’d be stopped before he got anywhere near it.

Instead he went back into his room. He needed to get dressed and get some Tylenol, coffee, and food.

 

* * *

 

The cafe was small, nondescript, with mediocre drinks, tucked in on a dead end street. Bad decor, cheap tables and chairs. It was empty aside from herself and the teenager sitting glumly behind the counter, staring at his cellphone. It was, in other words, boring.

Really fucking boring.

She sighed, pushing her sunglasses onto her forehead and blowing the stray hairs out of her face. It might have been a tolerable place if more people were there. Even though she didn’t entirely understand them, she loved being around people. Loved watching them, filing away their reactions and expressions to copy later if she needed to. Loved talking to them, teasing them, fucking with them. Press the button and see how they respond.

Grabbing a newspaper that had been left on the table, she pulled a pen out of her bag. Flipping the cap off, pausing to run her finger over the tip. It wasn’t an ideal tool, but with the right amount of force it could still pierce and tear one of the carotid arteries of that kid behind the counter. Fast bleed out. Messy, but quick.

Smiling at the thought, she instead pulled the newspaper over and began to doodle. One thing that she’d learned was that it was best to keep kills to business only. It wasn’t like she’d ever get enough of watching the way the light faded back in someone’s eyes as their last breath rattled in their chest. It was like a drug, she would only want it more and more. And eventually she’d get sloppy. Business only meant she got her fix, got her thrills, and got cash. A lot of cash.

There was a blur of movement and the rattle of a chair across from her, but she didn’t bother to look up from her sketch. A blank face with thick, shoulder-length hair. God, that hair...

“I know you like to be flamboyant in your work, Rey. I know it, I respect it, but you need to respect when I say something needs to be… understated.”

She looked up at the woman across from her, imposing, tall, broad, sitting straight with her hands clasped on the table in front of her. Somewhere in the back of her mind Rey was cataloging potential attack vectors, weaknesses, in the case that such things ever became necessary.

It was very likely behind Phasma’s cold blue gaze she was doing the exact same thing.

Rey met her eyes sheepishly, “Yeeaaah… um… I’m sorry about that, Phas.”

Phasma let out a heavy sigh, “No, you’re not.”

“Of course I am!” Rey said with an affronted gasp.

“You aren’t even capable of feeling remorse.”

“Maybe not but I can pretend to and make you feel better,” Rey offered, spreading her hands. “I mean, that’s what friends are for, right?”

Phasma rolled her eyes, pulling an envelope out of her purse and sliding it across the table. “What happened?”

“Nothing, I just got a little overzealous.” Rey opened the envelope, running a finger over the stack of pound notes it contained.

“Dozen stab wounds to the stomach overzealous?”

"What's a few extra when you're having fun?" Rey asked flippantly, slipping the envelope into her purse.

"Our employers are people who value discretion, Rey."

Rey pulled the paper over and went back to her sketch, blowing her bangs out of her face.

"They do not appreciate excessive attention to their activities." Phasma continued, agitation growing in her voice. When Rey didn't bother to look up Phasma leaned over and snatched the newspaper. "What are you even doing?"

"Hey, rude!"

Phasma looked at the sketch before glancing up at Rey quizzically.

"There's just something about a guy with black hair, you know?"

Both of Phasma's eyebrows went up as she looked at Rey with flat stare. After a pause she stood, tossing the paper back. It landed sketch side down in front of Rey.

"I'm more partial to gingers," she replied, voice flat. "I need tea, excuse me."

Rey's eyes followed Phasma as she walked up to the counter and tried to get the kid behind it to look up from his phone and take her order.

She glanced down at the paper and froze.

There was a picture of a crime scene. A sanitized, boring picture of a covered body, scene markers, and crime tape, giving it a generic, stock photo quality.

But there was nothing generic about it. She pulled the paper close and looked at the caption.

_Bias, argues Ben Solo, tends to lead law enforcement to dismiss or fail to follow up on reports that indicate a woman was the killer. Such was the case in a rural Virginia murder of George Greedo, where local detectives dismissed evidence that the murderer was indeed female._

Rey pursed her lips as she scanned up to the article’s headline. Greedo had been one of her first kills, one that she’d thought she’d pulled off a hundred percent clean. The fact that there was some kind of evidence that indicated her gender was… irritating.

**VIOLENT FEMMES - Lecture Series to Delve into the Minds and Motives of Women Who Kill**

She snorted to herself, skimming the article. An American by the name of Ben Solo was apparently presenting a series of lectures, the first of which was next Saturday.

“I want you to go for evaluation,” Phasma said, setting a tea cup and saucer onto the table.

Rey snapped her head up, flipping the paper quickly, “What?”

“Evaluation,” Phasma sat down, picking up the teacup. “You’re acting erratic.”

“Come _on_.”

“D.J. is out of the country but should be back the week after next.”

“So he can ask me how m-m-murder m-m-m-makes me f-f-f-feeel?” Rey huffed, leaning forward. “I’m fine, Phasma. This is a waste of time.”

Phasma’s raised her eyebrows, sipping her tea, “I’m also pulling you until D.J. gives your mental state a thumbs up.”

“ _What_?!” Rey’s mouth dropped. “You can’t do that!”

“I can, dear, and I am.”

“What the hell am I supposed to do for the next two weeks waiting for the stuttering psychiatrist to tell you I am the sort of crazy you want working for you?”

“Maybe try doing normal things? Blend in?”

“Normal is boring,” Rey said, a disgusted look on her face. She took a breath, “Phasma, I’m fine.”

“Mmm.”

“I’ll see D.J., okay? Whatever. But you don’t need to pull me. I’m fine, I’m really fine.”

“You’re acting erratic and emotional.” Phasma set her tea glass down. “Last night appears to have been action driven by anger and you won’t tell me why.”

“He ripped my dress,” Rey snapped.

Phasma frowned, “What?”

“I liked that dress.”

“That’s it?” Phasma pinched the bridge of her nose. “You drew it out because he ruined your dress?”

“Yeah,” Rey shrugged. “Why did you think I did it?” She giggled, “Did you think I got like all avenging angel or some shit like that cause he did bad things to people?” At Phasma’s silence she laughed, “Oh my fucking God. Seriously?”

There was a long pause before Phasma sighed, leaning over and pulling a large envelope from her back and tossing it across the table. “Fine. I won’t pull you, but you’re still going for evaluation when D.J. is back.”

“Fine,” Rey shook her head, opening the envelope. Inside was a passport, plane tickets, and a photo and some information on her target. “Warsaw?” Her voice morphed into a perfect Polish accent, “A Russian mobster hiding out in Polska?”

“I want this one quick and clean, Rey.”

Rey smiled, sliding the contents back into the envelope and standing up, “Quick and clean. I’ll even be able to get back here by Saturday.”

“What’s Saturday?”

“A free lecture over at the university.” Rey shouldered her purse and grabbed the newspaper, “Normal type thing people do, right?”

Phasma’s eyes narrowed suspiciously, “What lecture?”

“Ummm.. the subtle nature of female psychopaths… or something like that.”

There was a long pause before Phasma sighed and picked up her tea again, “Just… stay out of trouble.”

“Of course,” Rey grinned as she turned to walk out. “When do I ever get in trouble?”

 

* * *

 

The fry up might have been one of the few English culinary contributions that Ben was grateful for. There was just was just something to be said for sitting in an overly ornate hotel dining room while shoveling a plate of fried eggs and fatty meats that made breakfast a U.S. Denny’s look healthy by comparison into his face. It had a certain charm to it, even if beans as a part of breakfast weirded him out. And black pudding? Yeah, that’d be a no go right there.

A throat cleared across from him. He looked up to see one the older man from earlier standing across from him, tea cup in one hand and a saucer in the other. The man flashed a smile, “Mr. Solo. Edrisson Peavey. We met this morning.”

“Uh, yeah. It was forty minutes ago.” Ben shoved a piece of back bacon into his mouth.

“I’d like to thank you for your help. Hux interviewed the desk attendant again and it seems he left off some tidbits about our victim's proclivities during the initial interview.”

Ben shrugged, watching Edrisson cautiously.

Edrisson motioned to the chair opposite Ben, “Would you mind if I join you?”

“Fuck.” Ben dropped his fork onto his plate, “What do you want?”

Setting his saucer and teacup on the table, Edrisson pulled the chair out and sat down, folding his hands in front of him, “I was actually planning to meet you after your lecture Saturday.” Ben raised his eyebrows and Edrisson continued, “Very interesting lecture, I actually watched the webcast of your presentation of it at Stanford. I’ve been quite interested in meeting you since.” Edrisson picked up his tea and took a sip, “Interesting subject matter. You see, I’ve been tracking a female assassin, one that’s been operating the last two years in at least ten countries. Her targets have all been people who have influence. Some criminal. Some wealthy. Some political.”

Edrisson paused as Ben picked up his coffee, turning the cup in his hands, expression blank.

“While there were many insights in your lecture, Mr. Solo, the most intriguing part for me was that of the seventeen cases you highlight as examples, eleven of them appear are murders that we believe were carried out by the woman we are currently investigating.”

Ben snorted, looking at his coffee cup, “Eleven of the seventeen were not done by one person.”

A flash of disappointment crossed Edrisson’s face, as if he had been expecting something else. “Mr. Solo, I assure you—”

“All of them were.” Ben looked up over his coffee to meet Edrisson’s eyes.

“I… sorry?” Edrisson blinked in confusion.

“All seventeen. They’re all her,” he shrugged, sipping his coffee. “All of them.”

Edrisson leaned back in his chair, startled expression quickly fading into a smile. “Well, then… I think we may have some things to talk about.”


End file.
